


Afterglow

by chii



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clothing Porn, F/F, Light Bondage, M/M, Other, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 06:02:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/427709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chii/pseuds/chii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Much as he enjoys Natasha's tendency to tie Clint to the headboard, Phil really wishes they'd use something other than his ties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afterglow

**Author's Note:**

> Silly porn for the sake of porn, mostly. It's pretty much all Star's fault for talking about Avengers with me, and I really did have plans to write all sorts of introspective Bruce fic but nope.avi, porn came out instead. Thanks to Buttercup for making this less of a Nyquil-wrecked mess of word vomit. 
> 
> This is set in some nebulous point in time before the movie, if that needs to be said. ALSO I HATE TITLES AND SUMMARIES blow me, they will be forever awful.

“About time, sir.” Clint catches sight of Coulson out of the corner of his eyes, and flashes a smile at the sight of him, carrying a briefcase, still wearing his suit.

Coulson’s suits probably cost more money than Clint ever wants to think about, and as much as he mocks the man for wearing them, right then, watching Phil stand in the doorway, tie done up, suit jacket still on, looking stiff and stuffy and so goddamn businesslike. Clint hates that he can’t decide whether that suit looks better on Coulson’s body, or on the floor of the bedroom, really. Coulson notices, of course. He doesn’t have to say for Phil to know it; it shows in the quirk of his lips, not with the way he jerks his chin just a little in a come-here motion, and the way his eyes linger just a moment more than strictly necessary. 

He’s all sharp lines and crisp fabric and Coulson can keep wearing suits any day, really, when they make him look all slick and sharp like this.

“I wasn’t that late,” Phil murmurs, loosening his tie with a twist of fingers over fabric, sliding it off and letting the fabric pool into Natasha’s outstretched hand like they planned this whole thing, like every move from the doorway to here was intentional and plotted out. “Take care not to ruin that, please.”

The look Natasha gives him startles a laugh out of Clint, because it’s all patient irritation; she knows how he is about his stupid ties, damnit. Natasha’s hands crawl up Clint’s wrists, and the tie slips loose and easy around them, just enough of a knot to hold there. It’s for show right now, not to keep him there. Natasha slides right back down to where she was, dragging her teeth down Clint’s belly, stopping at the trail of hair leading down and moving to press her teeth lightly against his thigh, just enough to make him jump. She hasn’t touched his cock yet, waiting for Coulson to get there, and Clint realizes after a moment that Coulson is just casually ignoring that, leaning in and tightening the ties just so.

“Any time, boss,” Clint murmurs helpfully, and pulls at the bindings just enough for show, careful not to stretch the material of them. They all know he could break the bed if he needed to, he could get free, but it’s the idea of it, the sight, and there are precious few people who Clint trusts enough to let do that and they’re both in this room. “You know, I think normal people get real ties for this stuff. Or handcuffs. Considering what we do, I think it’s in SHIELD’s budget to spare a set of _handcuffs_.”

It’s so worth it just for the way Phil gives him a look and sinks into the armchair next to the bed, watching Natasha more than anything else, loosening the first button on his shirt, while he’s at it. “I’m not asking the Director for spare spending money for extra handcuffs,” he replies dryly, and crosses his legs, looking for all the world like he’s at a business meeting, or some sort of conference where he’s running damage control. Much as Clint wants that suit off of him, the image is mainly what it’s for, and he can’t argue that. “Miss Romanov, if you could--”

“Yes.” She doesn’t need him to finish; Natasha’s already curling a hand around the thickness of him, and easing her lips all the way down until they meet her fingers, neatly shutting up whatever smartass remark Clint had.

He’d push his fingers into her hair if he could, but he can’t, so he tugs at the bindings again, less show and more _want_ , licking his lips and torn between staring at Coulson and Natasha. He settles for just fighting to keep his eyes open, really, rolling his hips up once, and then finding hands pushing him down just from a hand gesture that Coulson makes to Natasha. They’re like this on the field, together, half-uttered orders and aborted hand-motions all they need to read each other; it makes sense that it carries over here too.

“Pull up, please, and use your hands for a moment,” Coulson requests and stands, one smooth line with that suit, leaning down and in and _Christ_ , if that’s not the hottest damn thing he’s seen in a long while, then Clint doesn’t know what is. Coulson kisses just as seriously as he handles everything else; one hand placed at Natasha’s jaw, tilting her head just so, and the other smoothing down over her shoulder, tracing skin and scars with a familiarity they both have with her body. Clint’s head tips back, a groan spilling out before he manages to look back at them, catching sight of Natasha shifting up and in and kissing back, dragging her teeth over Coulson’s bottom lip and soothing it with a flick of her tongue, doing something with her wrist that yanks another noise out of him. “That’s enough.”

Natasha is contrary down to the last, though, and stills the handjob, not the kiss, though it was clear what Coulson meant by the words; it’s all intentional. He’s their handler, he knows them better than most anyone else, save for each other. Clint doesn’t even bother being pleased at this, that Coulson knows just how to word things to get them to do what he likes, while still letting Natasha pick and choose.

He’d be more impressed, though, if he didn’t have two very lovely hands just still on his dick while he watches his handler and Natasha kiss, easy and deep and fucking _filthy_ while he’s just tied up.

Through Coulson’s quiet, even orders, he ends up on his hands and knees in front of the man, three of Natasha’s fingers opening him up while Clint gasps for air like he can’t get enough, curling a hand into a fist in the sheets instead of the handler’s neat suit. He won’t get it dirty, won’t risk that, and while Clint sees that he’s just as turned on as they are (and Christ, it wouldn’t be so bad if Coulson just let him mouth him through the suit because that’s a kink he didn’t even know he had until he tried and Coulson had Natasha tug him back by his hair with that goddamn polite smile on his face.) No matter how many times he asks, though, Coulson won’t budge on this. It’s enough he gets to see him in this suit during sex, Clint supposes.

“How many fingers?” Coulson says quietly, conversationally-- like he doesn’t fucking know and slides a hand through Clint’s hair, over a sensitive spot at the nape of his neck just to watch his spine bow, muscles going tense in his shoulders.

“Three,” Clint grits out, voice thick and hazy and uneven, fucking himself back on Natasha’s fingers when she stops, eyes unfocused and when Phil slides two fingers into his mouth, he doesn’t do anything but draw them in and suck, just to see the way Phil’s eyes go dark.

The slick head of the toy nudges against where her fingers had been, and Natasha fucks him through Coulson’s easy, even orders, issued like he’s not in the middle of all of this, like he’s watching a battle and giving orders from a million miles away, like he doesn’t have two fingers in Clint’s mouth, easing a third in just to watch and listen to the way Clint reacts.

Coulson lets Natasha come first, waves her away from Clint and reaches down between her thighs (--when did he roll his sleeves up, Clint wonders) and makes her come apart against him in just a few moments, a few murmured words in her ear and a quick, easy curl of fingers inside her and his lips against her throat.

Coulson jerks him off just as efficiently, watching him with all the intensity he puts on everything else, just far enough that there’s no danger of anything getting on his suit and it’s only when Natasha slips two fingers back inside of him and curls them while Coulson does that fucking thing with his wrist, that he comes, spilling all over his own belly and gasping like he’s coming undone.

“Boss,” he manages once he’s got his shit together and Natasha’s not got two fingers inside of him, driving him fucking nuts. She gets a look for that one and Natasha rolls her eyes at it, already working on the zipper and button to Coulson’s pants with her clean hand, mouthing him through his boxers.

“Quiet down,” Natasha murmurs idly and lets Clint take her place after his boxer-briefs make it all the way down to his thighs, watching Clint swallow him down, easy and relaxed. They’re both careful not to get anything on his suit, no matter how bad Clint wants to, damnit, and when Coulson comes, it’s with a low order on his lips of _swallow, Barton_ that sends heat sliding hot and liquid down his spine. On what’s definitely her side of the bed, Natasha’s stretched out and just watches, idly wiping her hands clean with the wipes they keep in one of the drawers, lips curled up faintly.

He’s still licking his lips and cleaning the room up by the time Coulson leaves and comes back, dressed in just a neat pair of sleeping pants and a tshirt, dropping quick, efficient kisses on both of them before he stretches out between them. He’s usually the only one who bothers with clothing afterward; it’s always a victory when one of them manages to convince him to just stay in bed and not _bother_.

The afterglow for them isn’t the same as with other people; Coulson takes out a tablet, Natasha’s already working on cleaning her guns between talking about where their missions are next, and Clint, who lost a bet last mission with her, is filing her paperwork, scribbling post-mission notes and summaries so Fury doesn’t crawl up their asses. “If you don’t like doing it,” Natasha murmurs loftily, “Maybe you ought to make sure the bets you make aren’t so poorly worded.”

It’s not the cuddling and spooning that most do afterward, but he’s got one of Natasha’s feet rubbing against his calf idly, and every so often, Coulson just brushes fingertips against him, usually in response to his good-natured bitching about the paperwork; it’s not the normal kind of afterglow for people- it’s far better.


End file.
